White Hot
by RubyFiamma
Summary: [8059] Gokudera likes to watch, eyes open and honest, no room for deception. Those eyes, made of auric shards of glass that look like they've been lit on fire, narrowed and focused and they watch him, like he's the only thing in the universe.


**Pairing :** Yamamoto Takeshi / Gokudera Hayato

**Rating : **R18

**Warnings : **PWP , Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot , Autoerotic Asphyxiation , Strangulation , Dominance , Underlying Angst

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><p><span><strong>White Hot<strong>

Gokudera likes to watch, eyes open and honest, no room for deception.

Those eyes, made of auric shards of glass that look like they've been lit on fire, narrowed and focused and they watch _him_, like he's the only thing in the universe.

His jaw set, serious and clenched; his mouth curved at an odd angle, lips pressed or bitten. Sometimes they part and make breathless sounds, other times they form words that Gokudera never hears.

His arms cage Gokudera in, framed on either side of his head and sometimes Gokudera will watch the biceps flex and tendons stretch. Sometimes he'll graze his nails along the hard ridges and when the white comes, he'll clutch those firm arms that do more than just swing a sword and dig those blunt fingernails in as hard as he can. He knows they sting, he knows they'll leave a trove of crescent shaped moons in the summery skin.

Gokudera likes to watch; likes to watch Yamamoto's movements flux and flow, fluid like liquid, other times sharp and desperate.

His hands sometimes wander over the broad and sinewy back, mapping out the planes and curves and ribs of muscle as they flex and go taut, twitch and release.

When he gets close, when Yamamoto is deep and raw, Gokudera splays his long and slender fingers, adorned with heavy metal, over his throat. He admires their contrast for only a split second before white hot flashes across his vision and he tightens the grip around Yamamoto's neck.

He holds him there, holds his head high with fingers pressing under his jaw and palm over the knob of his Adam's apple, feeling it constrict as he closes tighter and tighter. Gokudera's fingers find his pulse, thrumming like wings of a bird, excited and exhilarated. Yamamoto doesn't panic; he hisses, he moans, he calls out his name and it comes out strangled and short.

Yamamoto's features shift; something more malicious and feral, something more intense and it makes Gokudera's cock drip with anticipation. He can feel Yamamoto's windpipe under his hand and the more his fingers close in, the more he feels like crushing it; half riding in the haze of passion and the other half is drowning in hate. The less air Yamamoto consumes means there's more in the room for him but inside he feels like he's suffocating. There's a white hot heat around his own throat, like an unseen noose ready to hang him for his sins.

He rests one hand on his dick, strokes it slow just to work it and Yamamoto whines as he rocks, deeper and _deeper _until Gokudera feels like Yamamoto is consuming every bit of him.

In the dim light, Gokudera sees his eyelids flutter, roll back a little in his head as he bites his lower lip and thrusts hard like he means it. And damned if Gokudera doesn't let out one of his own strangled cries as the white hot pain jolts up his spine, meandering through every single synapse.

He squeezes his cock the same way he squeezes Yamamoto's throat, stalling from bursting at every seam. He's not ready yet, not until Yamamoto relinquishes first - and it will come, heavy and hard with erratic movements and incoherent speech and gasping, hitching, _pleading _breath.

Gokudera likes to watch; he stares into those narrow slit eyes defiantly, cold and hard and jagged jade. He scowls at the smirk because the bastard enjoys this way more than he should, but it's the smirk that rages through Gokudera's blood like wildfire, arching his body off the bed, up into the other man with his hand still wrapped around his throat. It's after that, that Gokudera glares into those half lidded, clouded eyes and crudely utters one command.

"Come for me."

And Yamamoto chokes and bucks, loses complete control and heat fills him as Yamamoto's eyes finally slide shut and he shudders.

Everything fades out, seeping into shrill white noise that resounds like a bell, untouched yet still rings. Every sensation rivets, exploding tingles on every pound of Gokudera's flesh and he let's go, clenching hard and curling toes and one last squeeze for good measure. His own breath catches in his throat, high pitched and gasping sobs. He comes undone as Yamamoto hits him hard one more time, thrusting in and rocking up and searing the white hot memory to every inch of his brain, imprinting on every last cell that quietly implodes with euphoria.

He folds against him boneless, sucking in the stale and sex stenched air, greedily just like always. Taking and taking and _always_ _taking__._

There are marks around his neck now, bruised subtle purple and blue. It's his signature, scrawled on a body he wants to possess but will never ask, because he's gluttonous too. He'll continue to take until Yamamoto breaks, a sad little story but true.

Sometimes, Gokudera likes to watch. He likes to watch those eyes widen as he pulls away, soften as he gets dressed and plead when he's about to leave. He likes to watch the warm smile fall from his face with a set line of his lips when Gokudera doesn't give in because _this _is who Yamamoto is. Selfish and greedy and clingy and needy. Next time, he'll have Yamamoto fold those fingers around his own throat, have him feel what it's like to hold a life in your hands, feel the _bloodlust_ that comes along with the chaotic heat.

Next time, because there's always a next time.


End file.
